


moon-honey under buried stars

by Ghostigos



Series: when all echoes turn gold [3]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Autistic Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Cultural Differences, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Rosh HaShana | Jewish New Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: The Moomins put together a festival in Snufkin’s honor for a very special holiday. Snufkin wishes he could be as excited about it as he claims to be.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Mymlans dotter | The Mymble's Daughter & Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: when all echoes turn gold [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707049
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30





	moon-honey under buried stars

**Author's Note:**

> ( _loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat_ — now the keen cloudy voices say: listen. we are trying to find you. listen. we think we can hear you)
> 
> takes place approx. two years after [tongue screwed shut](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944844) bc i'm inconsistent with my timeline

There's a marvelous heat that spreads across the glen, shrinking the ponds and caramelizing the grass. The weather, as it does and will continue to do, gives no quarter to the lives underneath it, and you deeply respect that.

Still, it doesn't mean the hot doesn't bother you nor your son — he's swaddled close to your chest with a washcloth and wriggling about like a starving earthworm. You'll admit he might be cranky because you'd been distracted by a secret hollow, scooped out of the earth like mighty claws and flooded with bogwater and penny buns. You want to return to it at a later date, but now it's well past time for Mildew's afternoon nap.

Relentless sunlight bleeds through the canopy of evergreen and pine, overgrown from the prosperous temperatures. They'll soon be turning colors as well, dressing the world into incomparable ambers and golden. You continue to trudge along these paths you could trace in your memories faster than you could count your whiskers.

(Which you are likely bare of at this point, with how much your son pulls on them.)

Eventually there's that sanctuary that breaks through the swollen greenery: that familiar blue house who's pale from years of worn love, the overlapping red roof tiles which are more of a rusty hue now. You've overhead Moominpappa talking about repainting it, but he'll likely just keep talking about it until the walls are a dull grey, and you're fond of the antique look of it anyway.

The trees disperse like drawn curtains as you march up to the bridge, seeing that Moomintroll is not waiting there like you'd thought. Then again, why would he? This sweltering heat would have him sweating buckets with his snowy coat — which is already packing on fur for the promised cold.

Mildew calms a bit as you rock him in your arms, veering his poor little eyes away from direct light. He buries his face into your mane instead, his little puffs of breath sweet and soft against your fur.

You cross the bridge — first peering down at the dancing dragonflies, the shoreline that's grown thick as the river thins, the cattail and sage along the shade of the bank. You point out a school of tadpoles swimming upstream to your son, who could care less, and then you finish the last leg of your hike.

Moomintroll resides under the sharp shadows of the veranda, pitting berries into appropriate jars for the late summer jams. Snorkmaiden sits by his side in a rocking chair, wearing a large sunhat with a lavender bow; her fur is a humble peach as she peels some apples. Both seem content to sit in their rocking chairs, trading few words that hold no water to them.

Moomin's ear prick up at your feet trailing up the dusty path, and he turns in an instant to greet you. "Snufkin!" He sets aside his work and wipes his purple-stained paws hastily on a cloth before rushing to the porch steps. He holds out his arms, eyes bright and giddy like this is your first return in spring.

"Moomintroll," you nod.

"Was he okay?" He slants into fret, looking down at Mildew resting beneath your neck. "Oh poor little kit, I hope he was okay with the weather. Is he hungry? Shall I go feed him?"

The mantra of questions causes you a brief reminisce on your first years as a father. It gives you a tickle of amusement as you hand Mildew off — his fingers pull your dress along with him. "He's happy as a lark, dear. Not a howl."

"Oh, good, good," he sighs, gently removing Mildew's claws from your clothes so they don't tear. Moomintroll buries him into the thick of his own scruff, giving your son steady pats on the back. Seeing how feather-soft your partner is, it seems to do the trick in sedating him.

"Aww," Snorkmaiden gushes from the sidelines. She puts the peeler on a nearby rattan table, flushing an adoring pink upon catching sight of your sleeping son. "Well, don't be selfish — let me have a look!"

The first months with Mildew were a minefield when folks stepped into the room for a peek. You remember, not too fondly, giving Moominmamma a deep scratch when she came in with a bowl of pudding. Mildew was just as tiny and fragile as a teacup, and this world much too big and sharp in comparison. Now with his first birthday having come and gone, the stitches of panic when he's in the arms of others have loosened. Although there's still hot discomfort, even now as Moomintroll transfers the little bundle in Snorkmaiden's lap. Snorkmaiden, who's notoriously despised the thought of having kids herself, and whom you recall once dropped (and broke) a prized plate in Moominhouse.

"Oh," she coos, wiggling a finger into his belly. "He's as teeny than a tick! And look, you can see his little mymble feelers growing on his head!"

Her eyes are set on the pinkened baby, and you find your shoulders dropping with a breath you'd apparently been carrying.

Moomintroll walks back to your side and rubs a moomin kiss on the side of your cheek. "If you're parched, I can get some water from the kitchen."

"I'm alright," you say, even though the first sprouts of dryness clog your throat. But then you catch interest in the abundant collection of packaged berries, glittering with water like a pool of gems. "Moominmamma's bidding, I'd presume?"

Moomintroll chuckles. "There's no time like the present for autumn pies!"

(You hum in agreement; you can't deny that Moominmamma's cooking has that spark of magic to it, no matter the season — actual magick too, perhaps.)

Then your attention shifts to the herbs hung upside down to dry: spindle, lilac, clarkia, thyme...all drifting amongst the gentle breeze. The air is heavily aromatic with the floral scent that descends through the valley. There's music that seeps into your paws, and you hop onto the porch railing to unspool a line of tickseed, tying a few into the brim of your hat.

"What a handsome mumrik," Moomintroll comments from down below, his arms crossed atop the fencing and looking up at you, gentle as a whisper.

For play you tip down your display so he can view it better, leaning your weight against the podium like something smug. "Yes, suppose I have some knack for color."

"And it matches your dress too!" Moomintroll claps. "How divine!"

From her chair, Snorkmaiden calls over, "Aren't those Moominmamma's curtains?"

You sway about, with the pink-and-white striped dress ballooning in the breeze. "She was getting rid of them and I offered to take it off her paws — lovely, isn't it?"

"You pull it off so well," Moomin gushes, ever your partisan. "I can imagine you as one of those models in Snorkmaiden's magazines."

Ignoring Snorkmaiden's scoff, you twirl about on the rail like a ballerina. "My, Moomintroll, how you flatter me!" You extend your paw and he takes it, leading you along the rail with one arm politely hooked behind his back, guiding you along the chipped fence. You have to duck your head in some parts lest you want the drying plants overhead to be disturbed.

"Do you know what holiday is coming, Moomintroll?" you ask him as he grabs your waist to swing you back down, departing with a touch of noses.

"Oh, another mumriken holiday I hope?"

"Of course!" you answer blithely, walking around with fluttering steps, dancing to a rhythm that is assigned to no particular beat or tongue. "If my readings are correct, in just another month it'll be a new year!"

"Oh?" Moomintroll repeats, sounding interested; he follows you along the veranda with one hand to steady your sways. "I always thought the new year was in winter."

"According to _your_ calendars," you point out. "Not everyone uses the same clocks as you trolls, you know."

"Now, I'm not a kid," Moomin counters. "I'm aware of different cultures."

"Are you? Good!" You pirouette to Snorkmaiden's side, gesturing for your child to be returned. "So I won't have to explain a thing to you, then."

"I didn't say that," Despite the teasing, his eyes are shining like there's a sun locked beneath them. Your own heart is alight and swaying with an innocent excitement you haven't housed in a while. It spins like a leaf in the wind, content with wherever fortune lands it, and you cherish it just as you do your son who snuggles back into your dress.

"A new year in autumn," Snorkmaiden muses, her pelt blossoming into a curious purple. Then she stands. "What a great idea! Maybe we could all celebrate it together!"

You stop and swing back around to her, the ends of your dress twisting around your knees. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ , what if we get the whole valley to join in?" Snorkmaiden looks at you eagerly. "What all do you do, Snufkin?"

Mildew squirms and you realize that you've started to clutch him a bit too snug.

You try to loosen and hobble him about as you explain, "Well...often it's prepared a month in advance, so we'd have to get started immediately..." When neither Snorkmaiden nor Moomintroll appear dissuaded, you continue at length: "There's a feast with certain foods and blessings to go with the foods, and you blow on a ram's horn and cast your sins into water—"

"That sounds so exciting!" Moomintroll looks ecstatic at the prospect; he looks to Snorkmaiden with jittery fingertips prodding her elbow. They clasp paws. "What a great idea, Floren! I'm sure the whole valley would love to be included on this!"

She flips her bangs with a clear boost of pride, flashing yellow and pink. "Aw, well, it'd be good to share some of Snufkin's customs with everyone else, don't you think? Why not spice up our calendars a bit?"

"That's what _I've_ been saying!"

"I hadn't heard you say that," you assert, frowning.

"Oh Snuf, this just sounds lovely," In a great mince Moomintroll crosses the porch to spin you around again, albeit more carefully this time around with the baby present. "Thank you for sharing this with us, just tell us _everything_ you need from us and we'll be sure to help out!"

You look at him for a long minute. Something dry and gross travels down your throat, like swallowing seedheads.

But you meet him with a dubious smile, pressing your nose back onto his because it belongs there. "You're a kind troll. Thank you, dearest."

He flushes pink and nuzzles you again, before turning back to Snorkmaiden in excited words that mash together. Since they seem ecstatic chewing the rag amongst themselves, there's no point intervening. There is also no more melody to dance to and so you go inside to put Mildew in his cot.

-

"A gathering?" Moominpappa looks up from his newspaper, eyebrows creased in surprise. "Mabon isn't for another month! If we were to celebrate anything now all the fruit for the altar would be rotten."

You stand over your father-in-law with that tailored confidence you usually manifest around him — he's not easy to form a relationship with, not like how Moominmamma is. Moominpappa is much bolder and louder than she, and cares for things that you didn't realize could be cared about.

And somehow Snorkmaiden's idea has led you to his armchair, asking for an ear to your concerns.

"Yes, I know, but it sounds like Moomin and Snorkmaiden are set on this," you say, flitting an eye over to the coffee table — where Pluckey sits with their watercolors and paper, their hair tucked into a loose ponytail. "And with Mabon being so close to the date, wouldn't you say there's a possibility of them accidentally intermingling with each other?"

"Intermingling!" Moominpappa repeats. "How so?"

(Ants, those are ants in your spine, like those silly childhood games where you shut your eyes and your siblings created unseen creeps to travel down your backside.)

You wish you were blessed with a golden tongue like Moomintroll, but dialogue always withers up on the way out of your throat and you're left looking a bit thick in the head. "Well," you attempt, "The idea of mixing traditions for people who are already unfamiliar with the holidays can be...a bit overwhelming. Never mind all the extra preparations, and—"

"Codswallop!"

"Excuse me?"

"It sounds magnificent!" Moominpappa rises in a grand gesture, as he does — sweeping the paper onto the floor and meeting your stance with arms upon his waist. "Mumriken and moomin tribes meeting for a day, learning off of each other...it's symbolic, a reunion between two different worlds!"

"Hardly suitable to list us as a _tribe_ ," you mutter to yourself, but Moominpappa doesn't listen.

"I can see it now," he goes on wistfully, one foot on the coffee table — and on Pluckey's drawings. "The whole valley pitching in their own, the night sky filled with good cheer and fireworks! What a fantastic way to introduce your culture to our friends, Snufkin, I applaud your schemes!"

"I hadn't—"

"What's this about fireworks?" Moominmamma steps into the living room from the kitchen, washing her paws that smell strongly of lemons. "Oh, has Lil Muff gotten into the bottle rockers again? I was hoping the attic was a good hiding spot, but—"

"No, no, darling," Moominpappa interjects, his gaze still a thousand miles from here. "Snufkin here was proposing that we celebrate this upcoming mumrik holiday with the rest of the valley!"

"Oh!" She turns to you in near shock. "That does sound like fun, but...Snufkin, are you sure it's alright?"

"I..." Cursed moomins, the worst thing about them is that they carry skies in their gazes; on good days it will warm you but on bad days it will all just sear into your fur. You think about the seeds you thought you'd swallowed on the veranda, how they're churning in your stomach and threatening to burst out something ugly. But you _can't_ be ugly around the Moomins, it's near unheard of.

"It's fine, Moominmamma," you end up saying.

Upon your approval they brighten up like flowers under the sun. Moominmamma is quick to hop on board with the plan, her ears flicking about with enthusiasm. "Oh, there's plenty to be done before this...when does it start, dear?"

"A month from now!" Moominpappa declares for you.

"Oh, good. That's just enough time to finish the pies and invitations... And, Snufkin, would you mind helping me figure out the requirements for the feast? I'm sure there are some rules we'd need to abide by."

"I'll help where I'm needed," you manage, like a thick wash of grey has coated over your tone. Pointedly you add on, "Maybe once your husband has removed his foot from my child's painting, I can go and get my notes."

"Oh my!" In haste Moominpappa lifts his leg and backs away, leaving a crumpled watercolor in his wake. Dejectedly, Pluckey glares at him. "Apologies, dear one. Now, off to research!" He leaves to trot up the stairway, probably to retrieve the history books you'd gifted to him seasons back for the study of mumriken.

"Whenever you're ready, we can discuss meals in the kitchen," Moominmamma whispers to you, then returns to her post at the kitchen counter to squeeze some fruits.

With everyone gone, a coil in your chest unfurls, leaving you in relief. You're being selfish by listing this as suffocating or intrusive — the Moomins _only_ ever want to help.

Instead of sitting with this guilt, you walk over to Pluckey readjusting their workspace. You kneel down and say, "I'm sorry he did that, but he meant no harm. Your grandfather just has a nasty habit of pipe dreaming, is all."

Pluckey shrugs and signs _It's okay, that was a bad drawing anyway._

"Thank you for not flipping him off this time."

 _Whatever._ With a flushed grimace they turn a new page in their sketchbook and you grant them privacy.

-

It's not that you don't _want_ the Moomins to celebrate alongside you, when the whole point of holidays is to indulge in different cultures and excavate them. You don't have a right to hide your candles under any bushels, there's already so little light that you carry. They're not trying to overshadow this, they're trying to _support_ you. And when have you had a final say on when their love and encouragement is too much?

What are you fixing to do, then? What would _you_ like for them to do instead?

You nearly entangle your fingers in the web of willow as you toss about your thoughts. Your weaving is not nearly as proficient as Moominmamma's, but it's good to keep the paws busied. You'd been hoping to make a sufficient basket for mushroom-gathering before you're inevitably called back to Moominhouse to help with Rosh Hashanah plans. They say you won't even have to worry your tail over anything, that they'll take care of all of it so you can sit and _weave your stupid baskets all day._

As you stifle a curse over a broken spoke, there's a trembling in the bushes beside you and out comes Moomintroll, leading your children along the trail with buckets full of ruby-red apples. He notices you sitting on the log and gives a cheerful wave. "Snufkin!"

You wave back, your smile a bit more artificial than expected. Still, with the drunken bliss of a pleasant afternoon, Moomintroll barely notices a dent in your demeanor. The children call out to greet you as well, their tails flicking about; it does make your grin a bit easier.

"Care to join us?" Moomintroll asks, gesturing to the path before them. "Mamma is making some apple cakes to send out with the invitations!"

You shake your head. "I'm well off here, thank you."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs off. There's a sprout of irritation that buds from his naivety; the line between his respecting of your privacy and being outright daft to when you'd _like_ to be pressed is remarkably thin.

"I ate a ladybug!" Lil Muff shouts proudly.

"That's wonderful, dear!" you reply. "Just don't spoil your appetite before dinner."

She beams at your approval before trotting off to her father's side. Pluckey just gives you a quick hello, then walks off too with their wooden cane guiding them along the pathway.

Only Snap remains.

You'd have figured them to wander off with the rest of their siblings. Instead they stare on, as merciless as a hungry owl. It's futile to think they'd yield to their silent inquiries, so you put aside your slath and pat the space beside you. "Would you like to join me?" you ask.

Snap nods at length, picking at their checkered dress as they walk over. They look down at the remains of a fireplace, as though eyeing for any lingering smoke. You watch them sit on the wood by your side and plot their bucket down at their feet, posture folded in like they're prepared for a scolding.

"I was hoping to go and pick some mushrooms," you explain — basket weaving be damned you could always just use your backpack, and besides it's better than waiting for your work to be completed. "If you're up for it, I'd enjoy the company."

"Alright," Snap decides.

-

"Remember the death cap I'd showed you?" you ask them as you trod along, "There's likely going to be some around here, so do you know what to avoid?"

Snap scrunches their eyes behind their glasses, trying to recall. "White gills, large skirt, yellow cap...I'll just avoid the pale mushrooms, then? You said we're here for penny buns so I'll just look for those."

"That works just fine," you nod. "Just mind your step, there are some deep puddles around here. You probably won't see them until you're already knee-deep."

"I've been here before," Snap replies, looking around as you step beneath the draping willows and enter the hollow.

The full-bellied marsh croaks with life from its residents, occupying a massive slope that veers sharply down. The rocks that protrude from the brown water are clotted with moss, and the reeds slap against your legs as though to welcome you. The green collecting on the surface is deceptive and so you mind your step, having already drenched the front of your toes with cold mud as you test your footing.

There's spots of copper amongst the greenery, and Snap heads over to collect them in their emptied tin. Their yellow rainboots keep them from being too meticulous, but if they were in their normal dress shoes you'd know they'd be giving a proper gripe about the mud.

"You know I met some nymphs along this same sort of pond?" you say to fill the air, "I don't remember if I told you this story — but they're excellent with crafting pottery from the mud! I played them a song and it was a delight, all the frogs and lightning-bugs joined in...I believe one of the faes stole my socks—"

"Why are you mad about the party?"

They might as well have thrown a boulder at the side of your skull. You whip around and face them in haste, and they're still glaring you down with those white eyes. The unspoken allegations feel as real as an organ.

"I'm sorry?"

They don't repeat the question, they know you heard it. "Why don't you just tell Pappa that you don't want to have a big valley gathering? It's obvious that you'd rather not share this holiday with anyone else."

You feel your face grow hot and the dappled sunlight scorches right into the top of your head. Your child's gaze bears no quarter to your twitching tail. You answer after a torturous minute, "Your grandparents are very kind to be putting this together for us, and I'm grateful for that—"

"You're lying," Snap cocks a brow.

"I'm not lying! Who taught you how to wise off like this?" you bark back.

Their eyes widen, ears flattening. Guilt is quick to rise up in your stomach and ribs when they just turn back to their patch of fungi, their backside stiffer than boughs.

"I'm sorry, my sweet," you murmur, lowering your hat over your eyes. "I don't mean to be snippy."

Snap's tail just gives one sweep over the cordgrass, slicing them down.

"I _am_ grateful," you sigh. "I ought to be, they're giving us something we wouldn't be able to have otherwise... And if they want to share that with others too, then that's good, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Snap says. They leave you drowning again in the silence, with the wailing cicadas.

"This will make things easier for all of us," you try to continue. "It's why you and your siblings celebrate your birthday on the same day."

"We celebrate on the same day because we're _triplets_ ," Snap corrects pointedly. "And Pluckey's birthday is at around 1 AM the next day so we celebrate on _that_ day instead. We don't do it all on _one day._ "

"Yes, well, that too..." Your eyes trail to the pond in search of something — a dragonfly rests on the dark emerald water and its legs cause a ripple.

"It's okay to not like things," Snap says, their voice carrying in the stagnant air.

"I know that."

"Okay," they respond, clearly not believing you. You can pretend the pinpricks collecting on your hackles are just from the humidity and nothing else. When you reach down to pluck the mushrooms from the soil — the whole _reason_ you're out here in the _first_ place — you feel your child's eyes return to your back and it feels as strong as lightning. Your heart stands on a perch, waiting for a drop.

But eventually you hear them return to their own harvest without a word.

The sun hangs lower behind the treetops and the greenery around you turns the color of mustard beneath the evening light. You ought to let your child hurry home for supper; with your light appetite you'll probably just eat the greens that you've just gathered.

They reunite with you atop the slope, brushing back the willows for you to crouch past and you return to the main trail. "I'm going to go home now," they say after a bit of walking.

"Alright then," you say. "Do you remember the way back?"

"I've walked this valley dozens of times!" Snap huffs. "I'm not _little._ "

"I'm sorry," you respond with faux remorse, a smiling creeping about. "But you'll always be rather little to me."

"I'm nearing your height, you know."

"That's hardly a bragging right," you tease, "I've seen wheat strands taller than I."

"You know what I mean."

"I do," you wrap up the play just in case Snap becomes a bit tetchy, since you don't really know what gets on their wick anymore. They've been as nippy as the cold recently.

You watch Snap disappear round a corner with their apples and penny buns and they don't look back when you call that you love them. Although when you turn tail to prepare your dinner, you can faintly hear them respond that they love you too.

-

You come downstairs and Moomintroll is sitting at the table cast in a low candelight, flickering and waning against the darkness enveloping the room. He looks like his mother, you think: hunched over with a paw holding up his muzzle, eyes delicate and a toneless hum on his throat. He writes in dainty handwriting, which you can't read from here; he dips his pen into the ink with one pinky upward, and for some reason this gesture has you chuckling. You watch him like you might admire a grainy photograph, admiring the soft edges of the scenery without intruding upon it.

Moomin hears your laughter and perks up. "Oh, Snufkin!"

You bring a finger to your lips, and his gaze drops down to Mildew who's asleep in your arms. You'd wrapped him as tightly as a cocoon; when he throws fits from troubled dreams you find that he enjoys the weight of his knitted blankets.

There's an open chair next to Moomintroll and you walk over to sit, minding your nightdress and the cargo you're carrying. "It's late," you whisper to him.

He explains, "I wanted to finish the invitations."

Oh.

"Ah, of course," you crane your neck as much as you can without disturbing your son. Moomin is clearly trying to mimic his parents' fancy handwriting — emphasis on 'tries'.

"I'm so excited!" Moomintroll beams at you, his voice cracking on the ends with joy he can't confine to a whisper. "We're sending out the cards and cake tomorrow. Mamma suggested we send one out to The Mymble too!"

_Oh._

"Erm, mymbles aren't.. Do you think she knows about Rosh Hashanah?" you try.

"Probably not," Moomintroll hums, tone brisk. "But that's why we're inviting her! She's your family after all, she deserves to know!"

"Yes..."

"I wanted to send one to the Joxter too," he continues, and before you have time to consider how you feel about _that_ he adds, "But Pappa said he likely didn't have a postal code or anything."

Maybe it's telling enough that the first symptom you feel is relief.

"Alright then," you stand, tucking the billows of blankets back into your arms until Mildew is safely secured again. "I'm going back to bed."

"I'll be there in a moment!" Again Moomintroll doesn't notice the lull in your tone, the intentional heavyset steps you tread on all the creaky wood back up the stairway. He continues writing his letters to your mother in stride, hadn't even asked if you wanted a sendoff to the envelopes or if you wanted to write to Mymble yourself. (Which you didn't.) Perhaps there's a whole other life that could be lead when you learn about the voices and demands dying on their way up your lungs.

You wouldn't know what that is, though; and why there are any demands to be made at all.

-

The weeks squeeze into days and those days into hours and soon there are tables and lights set up outside for tomorrow's feast. Moominmamma really outdid herself with reigning your guests in with apple honey cakes; she's prepped more alongside challah and jeweled rice, pomegranate-glazed chicken and honey cookies. The children have been out, with their auntie Snorkmaiden's assistance, gathering the ripest apples and greens along the pastures. You've been bestowed the chore of fishing till your heart’s content and your tins are filled; now your catches sit in the icebox preparing to be cooked — you're curious as to how the more posh residents will react to eating the head of the fish, rather than diced bits.

Since you've no manners you toss a date behind your teeth from the wrapped bowls on the kitchen table. Everyone else has tucked themself by the hearth, excitedly chatting over warm drinks about what tomorrow will bring. You've snuck away to refill your mug with a pot of coffee, still warm from dinner.

Little My pops out of her usual kettle, which is moved to a cool stovetop of course. "So I hear Mother is coming tomorrow," she starts coyly.

You don't give her a mere glance over, just pour the steaming drink into your mug. "For the party, yes."

"It's a shame you can't lie for toffee," she scoffs, wriggling out of the spout as the lid goes flying across the counter; the noise makes your ears wince. "Now how's about you tell me what's gotten you so fishy."

"I don't know what you're talking about." You sip your coffee, feeling the sharp flavor pool down your lungs.

"Don't be rubbish!" Little My taps a boot and crosses her arms. "And here I thought you'd _never_ be one to lick someone else's boot."

"I'm not licking anyone's boot!" you snap. "It's only polite to share your interests, My."

"I've always wondered what moomin paws tasted like," she muses with a hum. "I don't know how you even manage to _speak_ with all that moomin fur in your mouth."

"Leave."

Fine, fine." Little My throws herself off the counter's edge and lands on the floor with a huff. "I know when I'm unwanted — for telling the TRUTH."

"Shoo!!" You wave your paw out, cloaking your humiliation with arched impatience. Maybe if Little My didn’t have just the right amount of discernment, she'd be easier to toss off your shoulder. "Go and teach my children one of your wretched little pranks, you nark! At least then I'll be left to my coffee in _peace_!"

She snorts, walking away. But not before throwing over her shoulder, "Shanah Tovah, Snufkin!"

There's that swirl in your head like dark thunderclouds, brimming with anger and humiliation and maybe other things you can't define. A growl threatens to unleash and tickle your throat, just to give _some_ purpose to the inner storm boiling over. You see spots of red in your vision, and the only thing that keeps you grounded is that she'd _love_ for you to throw a fit and reveal your true, raw iniquity to the house.

You chug the coffee down and watch the milky-pink clouds turn to violet from the window. Your tail bobs into nearby drawers and makes a loud thwapping noise that echoes through the empty kitchen.

-

Under the beating sun, Milew looks as red as a cranberry. His delicate eyes are scrunched against the pale blue sky, and you tie the green bonnet under his chin that Moominmamma had given to him when he was born. It matches his eye color by only a stroke of luck.

Poor kit has such terrible eyesight; it'd taken him several months for his eyes to finally peel open, while your others had only needed a couple of weeks. Like his vision, he's also sensitive on eating with company, so as the guests spill into Moominhouse you sit hunched on the steps, coaxing mushed yam into his mouth. He sits on your lap as quiet as clouds; since Moomintroll would be upset if your dress got soiled before the party you wash the ends of his mouth with a spare cloth.

" _Laula, laula, unilintu, tuosku tuomenterttu,_ " It's a song so rusted in your memory that you can barely scrape the lyrics together. You've caught Moomintroll singing it to the children when they were small enough to fit into Moominmamma's knitting baskets; it's not one you grew up on, but Mildew likes it. " _Nuku, puna..._ "

You forget the words. Yet another thing you've had to borrow from the Moomins because you're unable to provide it yourself. How quickly it is to remember how much of you is unspeakable, unseen.

Mildew peeks up when the song is cut short, and his expression is as green as grass so it makes you smile at him. You set aside the mason jar so you can nuzzle his tiny, bowed nose accordingly. "How impolite it is," you say to him, "to be late to your own party, huh?"

He reaches up for a tiny braid in your hair that Pluckey had made, tugging it down with his little mymble paws.

"I ought to go inside and be civil," you sigh. "But what fun has that ever been?"

Mildew looks on, ever a wonderful listener to your woes. He grapples you with that clumsy etiquette which alights love all through your soul. When the pinches along your nerves become too great from his pulling you have to clasp his paws into your palm and lead them away from your hair.

"Silly little bug," you murmur, freeing his fingers so you can poke his nose. "You're going to be the best company I'll have all day, you know."

"What about me??"

Shock ratchets up your spine, barreling Mildew into your chest when you spin around to see Lil Muff leaning against the podium. She continues chewing on an apple that she probably shouldn't be eating.

"Lil Muff!" you scold lightly. "It's rude to spook."

"I'm not spookin'," she protests, plopping down beside you on the steps. Her fur is as explosive as an orange firework when the light hits. "Snap said you're being weird about the party and I agree."

When she's seated right next to you, her shoulder so quickly rises to your own that it's nearly bothering. "I'm not being weird."

She takes another loud chomp of her snack before shrugging it off. "I'unno, I was hoping this would be way more special. I don't like everybody here."

"Oh?" This perks your interest. "Why not?"

Your daughter's frown tightens. "I don't like Ms. Fillyjonk. She says my tail is too messy and I'm a dirty child."

"Fillyjonks would look at a piece of grass and say it was too crooked," you say, with a much-too carefree tone. "I wouldn't give her a lick of attention, Muffin."

"Okay..." Something about how her ears droop and she looks more disheveled at your advice, it almost makes you want to pry.

You do not, you _can_ not, instead you just feel stiff and rotten. There's something so large piling up behind your bones that demand proper attention; the scream for everyone to get lost and if Fillyjonk were to _ever_ interact with your child again that she'd be pushing up daisies far west from here.

Mildew whines for more food and so you pick your spoon up again to dip into the mush. Lil Muff returns inside after chucking her apple core into Moominmamma's garden.

-

"Yoohoo, Snufkin dear! Come down and say hello to your brothers and sisters!"

You scurry down the hilltop to meet your mother waving frantically on the end of the bridge. She's engulfed with a swarm of children as cluttered and loud as beehives, and they immediately scamper up the hill to release the clutches of their mother and younger sister. Mymble Jr. wraps her shoulders into a heavy shawl as she helps her mother up to Moominhouse, where the guests are outside and delighting in the warm sun and punch.

"I'm glad you were able to come," you say, because you ought to. "I hope the journey wasn't too tiring."

"Oh, no, just long and _dreary!_ " Mymblemamma waves off with a titter. "The poor turtle's sight is nearly gone, so we've taken _many_ detours on the path here. Not to say that wasn't enjoyable — remember that school of mermaids that helped us out of the lake?"

"Yes, I do remember Mamma," Mymble says with an exhale, like she's feigned amusement too many times over this tale. "Do you have any wine?"

"Erm, near the trolley?" You thumb over to Moominmamma's table of drinks and Mymble Jr. thanks you before rushing off as fast as her heels would manage up the path.

"I'll admit I was surprised when you invited us, Snufkin," your mother continues when you hook an arm around hers, leading her on in substitute of your sister. "I never imagined you to be interested in mumriken celebrations — which reminds me! Did you think of inviting your father?"

Your emotions are just knotted yarn in all different lengths and colors in your stomach. You have to shove them as far down as possible to manage a simple, "We didn't know his postal code."

"Oh, a pity," she says with a click of her tongue. "He always did enjoy a good party."

You reach the heart of the festival: tables lined with a foliage of warm foods smelling strongly of earth and honey, valley folks clustered together in small talk that turns louder with the presence of alcohol, and the children fighting over who may blow on the shofar (not exactly a ram's horn, but a paper-mache copy of one, courtesy of the Moomins once again).

There's a very vibrant selection of you that wants to rip the tablecloths out from underneath the platters and watch it be soiled by the grass. That wants to yell for everyone that you've only exchanged a sentence or less with to LEAVE this property. To rip the horn from the children's grimy little paws and explain to them that there is a prayer that _must_ be said before every blow, that there are rules and regulations and it doesn't matter if you're being prissy, this isn't some normal gathering, it is one of the most important mumriken holidays and everyone here is spitting and stomping on it, grinding the significance under their boot-heels.

Mymble Jr. returns with a wine glass in her paws, already nearing empty. She hadn't brought one for your mother, which you turn to her about before Mymblemamma seems to notice your confusion and chuckles.

"Oh, c'mere dearest, I have a surprise to tell you," She brings your paw into her gloved one and guides it to the curve of her stomach. You stand there, still baffled, until there's a little inch of movement right beneath your fingertips. It's such a distinctly-familiar sensation that it nearly draws your breath away.

Mymblemamma continues to laugh above you, sharing a knowing look overhead with your sister. "I know I'm hardly a spring chicken or anything, so isn't this just pleasant news!"

 _Of course_ and _How long?_ and _When did you know?_ dies on the journey up so you give a half-assed hum of approval before tucking your paw back into the sanctuary of your pockets.

"There's six of 'em, I think!" Mymblemamma goes on. "I ought to get a new aquarium, Lyme and Notch tend to hoard so much of it, hardly room for new tadpoles to scurry about in... Mymble dear, how does Beatrix strike you? I've always loved a good Beatrix!"

"I've already got a sister named Beatrix, Mamma," Mymble replies, finishing off her drink.

"Oh. Hmm...What about Streusel? You know I could go for one right about now."

"They live in the city with my aunt, I believe."

"Pah! Of course, curse me for being so talented with names," Mymblemamma sniffs. She tightens her own fuzzy wrap across her neck, looking around to eye the feast and the partygoers. "Snufkin, where are those little pollywogs of yours? I swear, they're so thin I can see right through them..."

"Mother, please don't feed my children candy before the meal."

"It's _law_ that a grandmymble must spoil her grandbabies, love, I don't expect you to understand... Ah! There they are!" That instant her eyes cross to where your children sit in rocking chairs on the veranda, talking amongst themselves in low murmurs that's so uncharacteristic to witness. Their gazes flit to Fillyjonk in particular, then the Moomins, and finally The Mymble who greets them with a pitched cry of joy. Immediately the clouds gathering above your childrens' heads are removed as they rush to their grandmother's side, smothered in frets and spoils.

You smile at the display, albeit distantly. Mymble aligns her sight with yours and you watch on with your children eagerly climbing up your mother's petticoat. With lips stained from the wine she says, "It's a nice party you have here, Snufkin."

"Yes," you say.

That's the end of that. Mymble is engulfed into gossip with Snorkmaiden and Alicia by the side of the house, chattering lively. The world moves around, like watching trees blur on a train ride. You opt to sit in your assigned chair and await further instruction, it won't be long until you're called to eat.

-

Once the introductions die down, everyone gathers at the long table; you're sandwiched between your children as Moomintroll takes a seat farther down to talk more with Snorkmaiden and Sniff. Parallel to your seat is Little My and Mymble Jr., who keeps pausing her talk with your hemulen neighbors to keep you an odd sideways peek, like she's checking for something. Many of your siblings reach out to fill their dishes but their paws are quickly slapped away by either their mother or each other.

Moominpappa sits at the front — you'd been offered to take middle stage but you'd declined. He taps at an empty wine glass to hush the audience, looking fondly and proudly at the mass of guests.

"I wanted to thank all of you for joining us for this marvelous feast," he begins, motioning towards those who'd travelled far and wide to participate — for _your_ sake. "As you may already know, Rosh Hashanah is a very important holiday in mumriken cultures — it marks the beginning of a new year, a time for reflection and atonement and beginnings. I'd like to personally thank our dearest family member, Snufkin, for allowing us to celebrate this occasion with him!"

The courteous claps feel like they're being transmitted through a wobbly radio station in your ears. Your hat lowers, there's static in your head.

"Now, I believe it's customary for the meal to start with a prayer," Moominpappa, suddenly, turns an expectant gaze to you.

It catches up with you. "Me??"

"Well, yes, naturally," he answers seamlessly. "You're the only mumrik here, after all!"

"Could've fooled _me,_ " you grumble under your breath.

"What was that?"

"Erm," you helplessly look at your guests and the table, like there's a blessing there; you had no idea how small the outdoors could feel. "Well, I'll need one of my books..."

"What sort of prayer is it?" Alicia calls out from her placement beside Snorkmaiden. "Perhaps I could offer one."

"It's not that simple," you respond. Your paws feel very matted, like someone has doused them in cobwebs—

"Oh, what's the point!" Sniff calls. "We already have our own blessings, what's so important about this particular one?"

"Sniff!" Moomintroll exclaims, glaring at his friend in offense. "It's not _like_ our other blessings, this is _Snufkin's_ , and I advise you to respect that!"

Hot, everything is very hot, everyone's eyes have quadrupled in size and number—

(From the corner of your eye you see Snap giving you a very long, very knowing stare.)

"That's a load of poppycock right there!" Fillyjonk sniffs, her whiskers twitching. Her accent is so sharp that her consonants hardly roll off the tongue, more like stumble. "If this were _truly_ his party then he would be polite enough to bid a simple how-do-you-do to every guest! Look at him, slumped over like a drenched doll — I tell you, I doubt these mumrik folk are near civilized enough for prayers anyway—!"

"Enough!!" Moomintroll shouts, showing teeth with his jaw bared. "This is _important_ to Snufkin, Fillyjonk! I don't give a fig on whether or not you respect and we ought to give him a proper ear, or we can all just sit here and starve!!"

Pluckey tugs on your arm; their eyes glitter in discomfort and it's apparent that they wish to return indoors. Even Lil Muff looks near appalled at her father's outburst.

"Moomin," you try to stage-whisper across the way, but it's futile when everyone listens in. “It's quite alright."

"Does he even know his own 'prayers'?" Fillyjonk continues over you.

"I've already prayed _my_ prayer," Sniff says, and you watch in horror as the _bastard_ reaches for some dates in their bowl.

"Sniff," Moomintroll warns again, but it's too late. It's already enough.

You slam your paws onto the table and everyone jumps as you stand. "We have NOT said ANY of the blessings for sedar and I would advise that if you cherish your whiskers, Sniff, that you would put that food _back_ onto its plate!!"

Sniff stares on slack-jawed, but just as your vision darkens he flings the date back to its place in a fright.

"I'm _sick_ of your frivolous manners!" you scream, flinging your arms about in unkempt white-hot _anger_. "ALL of you! Dancing around like this is nothing more than a fancy festival where you can get your kicks and leave — _have you NO respect for when the shofar CAN and SHOULD be blown??_ Because if _one_ more of Fillyjonk's little _weasels_ so much as lay a FINGER on it for fun then they will return home in pieces!!"

(The awestruck horror on Fillyjonk's face is so, very worth it.)

" _I can't TAKE this anymore!!_ " You kick your chair, tug at your dress collar which is much too tight, there are so many hands on your throat— " _Leave this damned house!!_ This is not YOUR celebration to share! _Get out!!_ The lot of you get out before I get a broom!!"

"Snufkin—?!" _You do not want to hear this._

“ _OUT!_ ” There’s a finger pointing over the valley and to the mountains and further into the sea. “ _Get out of my house!_ I can’t—”

“Snufkin—” Softer now.

The bright sun of hate in your eyes dispels and you’re only left remarking on the scene left behind: the hideous faces of shock and alarm digging into your skin, the reproachful gazes of your _children_...

Moomintroll looks so unbearably upset with you.

"I can't—" The wave of heat recedes and now all that's left is this drooping, impending tiredness. This grief. That this was supposed to be _yours_ , however selfish that is. It's meant to be _yours_ , not _theirs_ , you just wanted....

You wanted...

"I'm sorry." You clasp a napkin over your mouth and flee.

-

Of all the gorges and hollows you could've run to, your feet have led you into Moomintroll's bedroom. His fresh sheets, smelling of rosehips and lye, are crumpled up into your fists. Pathetic, stinging tears are squeezing out of your cheeks and your face feels engulfed with flames.

This is of _course_ why you never unravel your words into anything more than whispers — whatever ugliness you unbridle carries farther than you can reach. And now you have no say in what whispers and insults will be said on you, on your culture and on your family. It's such a terrible threat to be seen.

Rosh Hashanah is the starting point of introspecting, or _repenting_ like Moominpappa had said. Of being a bigger and better person of yourself; you thought that meant being more open with people, rather than tucking everything you held dear in worries that someone would swipe it away. But now you've gone and squandered it all, again — just like the burnt sukkah, just like your stumbled blessings, just like everything else.

There's a knock at the door; you expect Moomintroll to be behind it so you don't answer. You couldn't handle his shuffling pads, how his poor snout will droop with his ears, his tail dragging along the floor like a string.

"Snufkin?" Oh, it's not Moomintroll; in fact, it's not a voice you expected to hear at all.

Mymble opens the door without permission — not that you can really give it, since it isn't your room. You can't see her face from where you're curled into the mountain of pillows, but that doesn't mean you can't glare at her torso. "What is it."

She stops, hovering over you, and when you finally brave her expression you see that she's holding Mildew. His paws are stretched outward as she cradles him by the armpits, placing him atop your head like he's an ornament. You position yourself so you can grab him before he accidentally squashes the wildflowers on your hat.

As you adjust to the sea of pillows, angling Mildew to a more comfortable stance, Mymble sits on the edge of the bed, her movements porcelain. Her paws collect on her lap as she withholds any sort of expression. "I didn't know if he was still...nursing."

"N-no!" The embarrassment flashing on your cheeks doesn't do your sinuses any favor. "No, he's on solids."

"Right." Mymble looks a bit flushed for asking, and the room is stifled under your thick sniffs. "Moomintroll thought I'd find you up here."

Your spine finds the back of Moomintroll's bedpost, and Mildew reaches for the glistening streaks of tears still present on your face. "He could have just come up here himself."

"He thought you were cross with him."

"I'm not cross."

"No?" Mymble raises her thin brows. "Then what was that outburst at the table all about?"

"I..." You look down.

She makes due of the interval by caressing Mildew's curly locks budding in, minding his antennae since they're so sensitive. "I see a lot of our mother in you, actually," she begins, and it's an excellent start because it immediately catches you offguard.

"How so?"

"You're both pleasers."

It's like she's thrown your dress over your head and pointed out the indents where men should not have curves. For some reason _this_ is what makes you feel the most humiliated, your throat prickly and raw. It's like a match has been ignited but it quickly dies out before you snap back.

"Maybe 'pleaser' isn't the right word," Mymble decides, pursing a lip. "I think that you just...forget to be angry, really."

The fact that you're reacting so strongly probably proves a point, but that doesn't mean you want to hear it. You feel scolded, and utterly _degraded_. When your head lowers farther to curl into your son, Mymble doesn't either notice or care.

"It's easy to bottle things up just to make your loved ones happy," she goes on. "Since this holiday is so important to you, though, I think you have a right to be mad that it was commercialized so much."

"They didn't _commercialize_ it," you protest, but it's ignored.

"Snufkin, really, any more and they would've been handing out pamphlets.”

"They want me to be comfortable!"

"Are you?"

You’re not, so you don’t say so.

Mymble heaves a sigh. "Snufkin, I've _been_ down this path before — if I don't speak up about my boundaries I'd be stockpiled with chores and children all day! It's important to know what makes _you_ angry, and to be okay with that!” She scoots closer, kicking her feet up the bed and leaning forward on her knees. "You know, when I worked at a bookstore I met a gentleman — he'd come in every day, pushing books around to get my attention! Ugh, the creep..."

"What does this—"

"I'm getting there!" Mymble huffs and plants her paws on her hips. "What did you always say about interrupting others' stories?"

You open your mouth. Close it.

"Anyway, he asked me out on a date one night, he brought me flowers and turkish delights and everything. He made such a big deal out of it, practically _begged_ on his knees to let him take me to a planetarium. And you know what I said?"

You cock your head; even Mildew blinks with curiosity.

Mymble lifts herself up with a gleeful smirk. "I smashed his roses and told him to get lost! He was a creep and I wanted nothing to do with him!" You gasp, enriched in the idea of your sister ever telling a romantic interest off, "My coworkers said I was being brash, but it felt so _good._ I'd do it all over again just to see the stupid look on his mug!"

She laughs, then sobers up when she catches sight of your uneasy stare-down. "Snufkin, just because someone is nice to you doesn't mean you have to put up with a bunch of bullocks."

Of course, that makes sense, it _should_ be an easy solution: to stand up for yourself. But standing up so vividly like that means having a structure on what you want. On a life without the Moomins, and you'd already constructed such a home in them. What if they presumed you wanted nothing to do with them entirely? 

"I wanted..." you start, trembling with unease. "I wanted a nice gathering among family. I wanted...to teach them prayers from my books. I wanted two days of silence and...I didn't get that."

It's a start. Mymble nods approvingly. "So say somethin' about it! If they drop you like a hot potato after all of _this_ just because you've decided to have demands, I think we'd _all_ be surprised."

"It's not that easy," you say, snapping your head away. "I don't know what I want."

"But you being angry means you don't want _this,_ " Mymble gestures about. "So what if you want to celebrate your holidays quietly with a few select folk? That's your right! _You're_ the mumrik, not them!"

She makes this sound more simple than it is, and for a brief second you hate her for it.

"I wouldn't let people who don't know a thing about you control what you do for yourself," she says, setting a paw on the front of your shoulder. You eye it, waiting for the touch to drop.

"The Moomins know about me," you argue, with the lightest overtone of pigue.

"Could've fooled me," Mymble laughs with a wink. Then she rises up and her heels click along the patches of wood on the floor. "I'm going to get more wine. Want anything?"

You shake your head no. With Mildew falling asleep in your arms and the sound of the party far from your ears, you have everything you could ever need. She clicks the door closed and you don't get any more visitors.

-

When you step outside again after putting Mildew down, the world is golden and everyone avoids you like you have scarlet fever. There are now unsteady murmurs as everyone is bunched into small groups; the fact that there's an unspoken order to be ashamed of you hardly makes this new year any more promising.

Before the air builds in your lungs, you catch a spot of ginger on the bridge, and it's Lil Muff: she's throwing pebbles into the shallow waters. Her drooped figure is so out of the blue that you saunter down to meet her.

"Are you enjoying the party?" you ask her.

"No more than you," she retorts. You guess you deserve that one.

You sit with her and her tail lashes against your side many times; she's clearly riled up over something, but it's a lot like fish where you have to wait until they come to you to strike. Her throws are getting much more violent, causing harsh slaps against the water.

It's not long before it spills over: "Ms. Fillyjonk said I was being too boyish."

You spring up. "Does she know?"

"No?" Your daughter spits as she chucks another pebble in. "Why would I tell her?"

Fair enough. "I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it," you try, ignoring your own fur standing up along your backend. "...But I’d still have boxed her ears."

"Fillyjonks have ears?"

"Yes, they're very small so they can't hear anybody but themselves."

This gets a laugh, albeit a small one.

You drape an arm over your daughter's shoulder, pulling her close. "Don't listen to halfwits like her," you say, a bit too sharply. "Look at yourself, Muffin — you're a very pretty girl!"

"I think my paws are too big to be a girl's," she slumps anyway. "I'm all bulky and square."

"And I'm thin as a twig," you say. "Doesn't mean that I'm any less a man than Moominpappa, does it?"

"No..."

"The next time she says anything like that to you, I'll cut holes in her dresses."

"You wouldn't!" Lil Muff gasps, and this gets you a genuine laugh.

"I'll shove her into a box and ship her to Peru!" you crow, smiling too. "I'll put fire-ants in her bedsheets and hide all the ointment in the valley!"

She cackles, nearly falling over into the river if not for your hold on her scruff. You let your temper roam free like the stream below.

"Papa?" Lil Muff asks after a while.

"Yes?"

"Does this count as throwing our sins into the river?" she gestures to her little tower of pebbles near her side.

You blink. "I...suppose it does, yes."

"Cool!" She ferries one over into your palm and you relish its smooth texture against your prickly fur. You look at it, contemplating on what regrets and sins to cast away. Your daughter announces, "I hope Ms. Fillyjonk gets an awful case of the measles!" Then she throws.

You laugh. "It's important that we recite the Tashlich first, dear."

"Oh. So that didn't count?"

"We can keep it a secret and say that it did."

"Okay!" She transfers her bundle of rocks in the middle to share with you; as the sun sets you help her recite the foreign words that she trips over multiple times, and you burden every stone you cast with a portion of your own ugly, retched thoughts and wants you could never share.

It's the most fun you’ve had all day.

-

When the party is over and the tables have been wiped clean, only the cool glow of the moon provides light as you hike back up the hillside. The children have been put to bed minutes prior, and now you spot Moomintroll with his back to you, gazing up at the smolder of blue-grey clouds strolling across the horizon.

There's a throb in your sternum when you join him; you wonder if it's shame or disappointment that you feel, or maybe something entirely different.

"I hadn't even noticed you were unhappy," Moomintroll murmurs, half-kept to himself. His eyes are pools of remorse. "Snufkin, I—"

"There are always other years," you meet his side quietly. "And there's always tomorrow, we can have a feast with the leftovers—"

"I made this about myself, didn't I?" He garners a sigh. "I'm sorry..."

"You only ever wanted me to be happy, Moomintroll," you reply, threading his paws into your own. "You might have...gotten carried away. But you meant for the best."

"What you have isn't mine to take," his ears droop. "Not without your permission."

"And I'd given it."

"Not because you wanted to."

Your paws sizzle with tension as you stand side-by-side, stiff-necked, awaiting a third party to come in and tie everything up.

When nothing arrives but the song of nocturnal birds, you say softly, "I'm not used to things being mine. Now without your pawprints on them too."

Moomintroll looks at you slantwise, gaze perked but still heavy. "You don't have to share everything with me, you know."

"There's just so little that I _do_ share with you!" In vain you draw your paw away, tucking it into your crossed arms. You walk a few inches away, looking at the hills bending in the wind. "I wanted to share this with you too, but...not like this.”

Moomin is silent for a bit, as though trying to figure his response out. You await with bated breath like you might an execution.

"I feel as though...there's only 'we' now, and there's no room for a 'me'. And...I'm trying to get used to that, I _am_ , but—"

"It shouldn't be that way!" Moomintroll exclaims abruptly; you still can't bear to look at him. "Snufkin, your wants, your culture— they ought to be _yours_ , not mine!"

You fold in a lip.

"Would you want to read every romance novel I own?"

You snort, despite yourself. "No?"

"Exactly! Because they're mine, and they don't have to be ours for you to know I enjoy them," Moomintroll's paw graces your shoulder with fragile certainty, and inevitably you turn back into his arms. He holds you at length and you can see how utterly _gentle_ his eyes have become; it's amazing that anyone can look at you with such marvel. "You need to be yourself without me suffocating you every step of the way."

"But I _want_ things to be ours," you sigh. "I just..I don't know where to start and when to stop, not without making a fuss..."

"Then fuss about it!" Moomntroll cries. "Fuss until you figure out why you're fussing — then you'd never have to fuss over it again!"

"Thank you..."

"I love you quite dearly, Snufkin," he draws you into his chest — you don't fit like puzzle pieces, but you make it work just fine. "The last thing I ever want is to suffocate you. Do you know how boring it'd be to just be engaged to myself?"

You manage a chuckle, even as his fur tickles your nose. "Yes, well, us snufkins are never too compatible with each other either. We'd sit in silence for so long, we'd bore ourselves to the grave!"

"And us moomins would just talk each other's ears off," Moomintroll adds on, laughing as well.

The quiet is much nicer this time around; Moomintroll drapes a paw around your waist to keep you locked in, his touch as demanding as a ghost's grip. He takes your hand into his other paw, holding it up to the moonlight.

Without command, your feet backstep along the grass, then forward again, then side to side. It's choppy, like many of your rehearsals tend to be, but also swift. Neither one of you leads the other along, there's just a sort of _pace_ that the world bends into. When Moomintroll begins to hum and its echoes match your gentle purr, it's nearly sacrilege. He sings as soft as a hummingbird's wings, meant for one listener alone. It is unknown and it is beautiful.

When he reaches the second chorus, he pulls away suddenly and says, "Oh, come on!"

You blink back into the world, nearly intoxicated. "Pardon?"

He points to the sharp glow of the kitchen window, where there are three silhouettes pressed up against the glass. They scatter at being caught.

"I'd _just_ tucked them in," Moomintroll sighs, and he glides his arm away from yours with reproach. "I should..."

"You should," you reach up to nuzzle his velvety nose. "I'll still be here."

"Of course," he goes to put your children back to bed, and before he steps inside Moominhouse he calls out, "There's still plenty of apples and honey!"

"I imagine so," you reply, already having planned to sneak inside and scavenge for some.

When the door clicks shut and the lights turn off, you're left to the sky for company. The night is kind, though, and sweeps you in like you've always belonged there. A chill rushes in from the north, promoting shorter days ahead.

Your dress swirls and the grass whispers beneath your tread. Like with Moomintroll's dance, there's no set pattern to your feet, nor a tune to abide by. Your body moves on a whim that even you can't understand, but you're smiling throughout.

Perhaps you'll share this improvised melody with Moomin, or the kids. Or perhaps you won't and keep it to yourself. 

Above you the stars applaud your efforts.

**Author's Note:**

> Moomin is probably singing this
> 
> Also anyone that catches all the floriography refrance gets a kiss


End file.
